


Tinker, Tailor...

by BokuNoWriterAcademia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, Gen, London, Original Fiction, Riots, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BokuNoWriterAcademia/pseuds/BokuNoWriterAcademia
Summary: Well, this is a short little original fic I decided to do while working on the Villainy Club. We shall return to your regularly scheduled adventures of Handy Man Tenko and his scooby gang soon, but for now, here's something a tad bleaker, since I was in the mood for writing some good old edge.
Kudos: 2





	Tinker, Tailor...

The carriage of the underground cart vibrated, rumbling with every inch of progression made, light streaking past the windows, illuminating the inside of the train for a mere few seconds, before moderate darkness once again descended on the occupants, who sat crammed in together, not unlike sardines at a packing plant, little if any room left for them to move, for them to breathe. It was suffocating, the low hum of the wheels clicking against the steel tracks and the chatter of passengers to one another totally drowning out any kind of audibility to anything that was not one of those two sounds. Not even one's own thoughts could be heard over the noise. All sorts of people filled the carriage. Some wore tracksuits; Others business suits. Some were old, the archaic remnants of a quickly fading bygone era, and others were in the prime of their youth. Some kept to themselves, others were loud and not ashamed of it. Regardless, they all came together as one to form this cramped, oppressive atmosphere.

Leo Smyth very much appreciated this. It seemed the duo-daily London Underground journeys he took were the only times he had some sort of reprive from the world around him. It was a dingy, disgusting haven, somewhere to hide away until the bad times had passed by and moved on. They never did move on, so Leo was stuck taking in the minute beauty of all these people, bunched together like apples in a tree, all entwining in one, barely noteworthy goal. It was the only time anyone would have any unity anymore; In the underground, who you were was irrelevant; You were just another person on the way home.

Another person. What an outdated way of thinking.

As the doors to the station hissed open, Smyth stood, taking his briefcase with him as he adjusted his glasses, the harsh lighting of Waterloo Station reflecting in them. Odd. The lights were hardly ever on in this place anymore. Someone was always smashing them. The downside of a people's revolution was that it rarely gave a shit about the people other than those involved. At that rate, it could hardly be considered a people's anything. Then again, Leo Smyth was not one for semantics, probably because raising points like that were a good way to get one's head stomped against the nearest parking curb. Pushing through the others, the young man descended onto the platform, among maybe four or five others. Waterloo wasn't a very good place to get off. Most smart men would just take having a longer walk from a further station in exchange for some small sense of safety. Evidently, Leo was not a smart man. Then again, that was no huge revelation. His mother could have told him that much, may she rest in peace.

Nodding with something resembling uncommon courtesy to the other brave, stupid few who had departed the train with him, Smyth began the walk up the staircase, producing his battered Oyster card from his jacket pocket. It was old, faded bent and stained with what he hoped to whatever God may be out there was his lunch. Half of the time, it didn't work, although most people elected to either vault the turntables or smash them to pieces nowadays anyway. He still liked to at least appear as a functional member of society, even if society itself was the non-functioning part of the equation.

As he ascended the stairs, the smell of burning embers hit him hard. So the infernos continued to rage on, ignorant to the best efforts of what remained of the fire department. They had been blazing for days at that point, lighting up the night's sky, meshing with the stars and killing any chance of a good night's sleep. Reaching the turntables, he found one that wasn't broken or sprayed with obscenities and swiped his card. It took several tries but eventually, the screen parted to let him through. He did his best to ignore the body slumped against the wall as he did so. It seemed recent, fresh blood still trickling from the gunshot wound in her chest. Poor girl, she couldn't have been older than twenty or so. What her crime was, Smyth didn't know. Could have been her olive skin tone, or the burka on her head, or maybe she had been idiotic enough to try and protect another. Perhaps a combination of all of those things. It was none of Leo Smyth's business and he paid her no more heed than these momentary theories as he passed her. She was in another world by now.

He still had to deal with the struggles of the living. And whatever came for the dead would likely be easier than what he had to deal with. There was not exactly time for worrying about the trials and tribulations of those who would never again have to think. They were free of their responsibilities of their fears. Some were less lucky, and those who were simply had to push forward.

"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor."

"Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief."

"Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief."

"Choke an' stab 'til life has ceased."

"All are one, beneath the Beast."

"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor."

Four distinct voices called out this chant, three men, young from the sounds of it and one woman, who sounded to be their elder. Smyth was reminded of memories of the old nursery rhyme, read to him by a long-buried mother, changed and twisted. That shouldn't have come as a surprise; Religion nuts prowled the streets of London, zealots howling about the new age that was supposedly upon them all. The distorted chanting only became more audible as the man stepped out onto what could vaguely be considered a street. He took in a breath of the air. It was smouldering and stiff with smog, absolutely rancid in any step of the word. It was fresh in the same way society was held together: Barely, but just about considered so.

London had not been the same in years.

Not since the riots raged and the blood splattered the Downing Street walls.

Not since the flags flew and the resolve of the few became the trend of the many.

Not in five years had London, had England, been normal.

For those who remembered a time of normality, before the world was set alight by the sparks laid by lunatics using freedom as an excuse, it was a sad, sorry state, truly the end of the world. A dismal display of the degradation of the democratic ideals that once bound the country like glue, tarnished by a lust for true freedom, without true security. 

For Leo Smyth, it was Tuesday.


End file.
